


a folded list, a hoodie's pocket

by manhattan



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Alcohol, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Post-Endgame, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 18:27:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4232184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manhattan/pseuds/manhattan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even if you’re the best pilot in the Alliance, you can still feel aimless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a folded list, a hoodie's pocket

**1\. Get the drinks**

They raid her cabin’s bar, on the trip back.

“I loved her,” Garrus mutters into his drink. His eyes are narrowed, half-shut, and he is swaying on Shepard’s bed. Then he chuckles, and if that’s not the saddest thing he’s ever heard then Joker doesn’t know _what_ is. “Hell, I still do. I – I don’t think I’ll ever stop.”

“I loved her, too,” Tali replies from his right, sharp like a glass shard, sharp like this is a competition and she needs the first place to carry on with her life. The space between her and Garrus could fill a chasm.

Liara, sitting by the terminal, remains soothingly silent. She does not feel the need to vocalize what has always been so obvious. Instead, she traces the rim of her glass, traces waves across the white wine, and suffers in silence.

 _That’s neat,_ Joker thinks, and swallows down the rest of his scotch, bitter like the end was, bitter like he feels, _but_ _I loved her first, without any of your romantic complications, without any of your mistrustful episodes – I loved Shepard for who she was, what she defended, and what she made of me, so sit your ass down and shut the fuck up, children, ‘cause you don’t know shit._

He doesn’t really say any of that. He thinks it, over and over, and he’s sure it’s the honest truth, but he doesn’t say it aloud. Instead, he tips the scotch bottle into his glass again, and continues hearing the lamentations of broken-hearted drunks.

* * *

**2\. Party gifts (?)**

The Normandy Crew is mostly unharmed, and there _is_ a paved way for something more, but Joker just asks for a leave of absence.

The funeral service is small and exclusive, but Shepard’s coffin still makes the rounds around London, still gets the surviving population crying and waving home-made banners. It’s almost sort of beautiful, in a Hollywood-esque sort of way, which means all Joker wants is to sneer at them.

 _It’s just an empty casket, morons_ , Joker thinks, and doesn’t cry, not a single tear, while they put it in the ground. Why should he? There is _nothing_ of Shepard there. Shepard was abandoned on an exploding space station; Joker doubts there was anything left of her to fill a thimble. _Dead for a week and they still won’t let you rest, huh, Commander?_

They wrap the polished metal with the System’s Alliance flag, stretched taut, and proud, and wrong in all senses. Shepard wasn’t even from Earth, she was from freakin’ Mindoir, and she was more than just a war hero, more than just a legendary Spectre, more than just a fucking martyr. This was about more than just humanity, Joker wants to tell them; this was more than a victory.

He leaves half-way through it, though Traynor’s shaking hands try to get him to stay, though Hackett’s quiet voice tries to make it better, though Garrus slides a flask of hard liquor his way. Garrus, lacking the ever-present smirking glint in his eyes.

“No, that’s, uh – I’m fine, thanks,” Joker says, refusing the slick metal flask. Garrus shrugs his shoulders, stance a little unsteady, and brings the bottle to his mouth. “Nice flask, though. Where’d you get it? I've been thinking of getting my own.”

“It was a present,” Garrus says, and avoids looking at the headstone.

 _Right_. Yeah, so. Yeah, he leaves half-way through it, and when he gets to the Normandy his face is wet, and his nose hurts, and there is no one to ask: what’s wrong, Jeff?

* * *

**3\. New music tracks – ask Jack**

Shepard leaves him Anderson’s apartment. The keys are delivered by a courier who has no idea what it all means, and when Joker unlocks the front door there is a smooth jazz record playing – probably an automated system.

At first, he is baffled, skirting the limits of outrage. He can’t believe the Citadel Force has prioritized fixing a deluxe apartment, not when there are refugees and wounded, not when the rest of the Citadel lies in sizzling ruins. Then he remembers Anderson and Shepard are war heroes, that of _course_ the human council would try and make it better.

It’s just a stupid apartment, Joker thinks, closing the door behind him.

A stupid apartment with a hot tub and a piano and a wicked sound system, and Joker doesn’t mind jazz, but the first thing he does is turn off the sound system.

Because without the warm lie of music, Anderson’s apartment is a graveyard, and Joker needs a place to mourn. So he stands by the fireplace, staring out the blinds, hands open, hands closed, hands open, hands closed – god, he wants to fucking burn the place down. He wants to sit down on the floor and wait for something to happen. He wants to go back in time. Because _how_ could he have not realized? How did he not realize she’d _assumed_ she wasn’t going to make it? How did Shepard get something like this past him?

“I bet you asked for EDI’s help, huh,” Joker accuses, calling out like Shepard’s just in her office, battling her emails, and throws a log into the fire, just to hear it thud and crackle and disappear. His voice softens: “I bet she was all into the idea, too.”

He can’t even punch the wall, or something as equally dramatic, can’t even trash the place without Grunt’s help, can’t tear it up without Jack’s encouragement. He considers it, though, and wonders if the resulting endorphin influx would be worth it.

“Goddamn,” he says, and has to go and sit down before his knees give out on him. He doesn’t do much after that; he knows there are things to be packed, sentimental objects to go through – he wonders if Garrus has been here already – but not today.

Today, the only thing Joker can do is deactivate the automated sound system.

* * *

**4\. Good humor**

“Joker,” Garrus says, still catching his breath, “that was a terrible joke.”

“Yeah, it was; it _really_ was,” he agrees, wiping his eyes. Garrus takes another swig from the bottle. “Want to hear another?”

“Hit me.”

“I can’t fly the Normandy anymore,” Joker slurs, and leans against the counter. Everything is spinning and he giggles, then hiccups, then groans. Then proceeds: “They got her up and running three days ago, did you know?”

“Yeah? ‘S about time.”

“Seriously, they always take so long.” He swirls his glass, smacks his tongue. “So I sat on the cockpit and I just – froze. Couldn’t do anything.”

There is a pause; the water pit-patters against the windows.

Today, the Citadel’s meteorological center has decided for a rainy evening, instead of just misty; ever since they got the system back up and running, there hasn’t been a single sunny day. He feels oddly appeased by that, feels like the Citadel deserves this shitty-ass weather.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Joker,” Garrus slurs back, elbow missing the edge of the counter. He recovers instantly, albeit a little awkwardly, and goes on. “If it helps,” and he takes a breath, frowns at the myriad of shot glasses littering Anderson’s bar, “I can’t shoot anymore. Not the way I used to, at least.”

“Performance issues, Vakarian? I never thought,” Joker teases.

“Yes, well,” Garrus replies, amused, “some habits are hard to break. Without a reckless vanguard charging up ahead, who’s a sniper supposed to cover for?”

Joker thinks of EDI’s voice, of the cool temperature of her fingers, of how sound her piloting advice was, how he never expected to rely on someone else. Garrus looks into his glass like he’s looking through the scope of his Widow.

“Uh, how about he covers his own ass for a change?” Joker tries, and though the quip is barely amusing, the two of them still laugh until they’re out of breath. It’s all they have left.

* * *

**5\. A perfect host – ask Glyph**

He ends up returning to the Alliance, but his assigned captain’s a wackjob with no guts, and Joker requests an early retirement after he has a public shouting match over honor and duty. Him, _Joker_ , the dude who didn’t give a shit about any of that as long as the Normandy got out unscratched. Yeah, it’s gotten this bad.

So he empties his bank account and buys an old frigate, after he gets the letter of dismissal. Joker gets Donnelly aboard, because he gets it, ever since Gabby died that Donnelly _gets_ it, and leaves the rest behind.

He does not say goodbye.

Instead, he blocks Ashley’s email address because she reminds him of times gone by. He blocks Jack’s because she is simply too bold to leave him to his self-pity, and Joker wants to _wallow_ in it. He leaves Liara’s and Tali’s alone – it would be a waste of time to even try – but he blocks Traynor, Adams, Chakwas, Fredricks, hell, everyone who’s ever met him.

 _Listen, man, you gotta knock this lone ranger shit out_ , James writes once, before Joker has completed his personal purge. _We gotta be here for each other._

 _You don’t even know me that well,_ Joker starts replying, once, _you didn’t even know_ her _that well,_ _you were just the lucky soldier thrown under her command_ , _what makes you_ think _that you can just_ — then he deletes it, marks all of James’ messages as spam, and blocks _his_ ass, too.

He’s not surprised when James tracks him down; he’s a little impressed, though.

“Requesting permission to come aboard, Joker,” Donnelly calls from the back.

“What? No. How did he even – just, shoo him away or something. Pretend we’re a meteorite,” Joker says, even as the Normandy SR-2 extends the boarding hatch. He resists the urge to leave, but only because Alliance would probably arrest him for throwing an N7 operative into space – oh, wait, no, that’s been done before, right? And they didn’t really _do_ anything about it, either, did they?

The cockpit door slides open, breaking him out of his thoughts.

Joker looks at the glass, checks out the reflection. James is wider, taller, showcasing a difference in his physique and in his stance, and the last time Joker felt this fragile was when the Collectors took over the Normandy. Donnelly shakes his hand – confident grip – and then leaves the cockpit, taking care to slide the doors closed.

James whistles, hands on hips.

“Nice ship you got here. Never knew you wanted to be a captain,” he says, the N7 insignia still bright and unscratched on his chest. The red gleams under the cockpit lights. Shepard’s uniform was dim, well-worn, had as many scars as she did. Shepard’s uniform is lost in space again, dissolved into nothing, and this time there is no one to bring it back.

Then, like he’s read Joker’s mind, James’ voice softens:

“I, uh. I like the name you chose.” Joker pretends to change some settings on the control board, as James sits down next to him and kicks back. “Man, you’ve been super rude, though, the hell’s going on with you?”

“What do you _want_ , Vega,” Joker drones, without looking away from the controls. The Normandy hovers besides him, a presence that is littered with too many memories, too much pain. Joker keeps his head turned forward, staring into luminescent numbers and the darkness of space.                      

“What d’you think?” James says, and for once his voice is clear of juvenile amusement. “I want you back on the Normandy, Joker.”

“I’m good, thanks, in case you haven’t noticed,” Joker replies, and gestures towards the Shepard’s back. James frowns, but he doesn’t pressure, just locks his fingers behind his head and looks at the stars. “Got my own ship and everything.”

“How much did you pay for her?”

“Why? What do you care? You’re just buying yourself time to figure out how to convince me into leaving.” He goes on fiddling with the buttons. “Do you know how much it hurts to even _look_ at the Normandy, Vega?”

“No,” James replies, simply, “I don’t. But just ‘cause you never told me.”

Joker lets his hands fall, and looks up at the sky, too. For a minute, everything is quiet, save the low hum of the spaceship.

“We’ve been trying to resurrect EDI—“ James starts.

“EDI’s gone,” Joker cuts in, even though his throat goes tight. “EDI’s _gone_ , man. Whatever you manage to resurrect will just be old data, bits and pieces. It won’t be the same. There’s no point in holding onto the – no point in – ” then he huffs, closes his eyes, rests a hand on his brow.

“You named your own ship after the Commander, Joker,” James says slowly, giving him a side-glance that is only measured, not accusative. Beneath their feet, the Shepard hums, and Joker feels hollow. “You’re the last person who can say there’s no point holding onto the past.”

“Of course I am,” Joker manages. “There’s no one else who would willingly inflict this onto themselves. Thane, probably, but he’s dead, too, so who cares.”

James goes a long time without talking. Joker keeps his hand on his brow, a safety measure. He hasn’t cried since the funeral.

“You know,” he finally says, “Commander Shepard wouldn’t want you to live like this. She died for this – this _present_. We’re alive right now, Joker. After all this bullshit with the Reapers, you’re just gonna waste the rest of your life? You’re just gonna discard the future Shepard won for us?”

 _Screw you_ , Joker thinks, closing his hand. _That’s not fair._ But James is a soldier, through and through, and he barrels on:

“Are you so far gone that you’re actually trying to alienate yourself from us? You’re actually gonna give up, instead of working harder, instead of tryin’a bring back your girl? Sure, it might not work, it might not be EDI, but you can _try_ , Joker.”

Then he pauses, lowers the volume.

“Vakarian, he … He doesn’t even have that option, Joker. Hell, none of us do.”

“ _Low blow_ , Vega,” Joker mumbles, fighting back tears, because he can just hear Shepard’s voice telling him the same fucking thing, and it – it hurts. _It will hurt no matter how far you run, Joker_ , Shepard would say. Shepard always knew what to say.

But Shepard’s not here. It’s only James, Joker, and a pale imitation of the love of his life. The Normandy’s wings’ lights flash, then, almost as if she knows. He hopes the Shepard won’t get jealous – he’s in no mood to deal with stuff like that.

“A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do,” James replies, still looking out the glass pane. “Can’t make an omelet without cracking a few eggs.”

“Spare me the battered clichés,” Joker groans, and then sighs. “What do you want me to say? That you’re right? That I ran away because I couldn’t deal with—?” Another sigh, another part of him that feels lighter.

James waits.

“Fine,” Joker says. “Fine, okay? Just give me a couple of weeks to figure out my life.”

“Yes!” James exclaims, grinning as he fistpumps. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down, _hombre!_ Wait ‘till I tell Esteban about this, he’s gonna flip a lid – he misses you, y’know? We’re gonna have ourselves a celebration—oh, and, uh,” his smile softens, “I’m glad you’re back on the team, Joker.”

 _I never left_ , _jackass_ , is what Joker almost snipes.

“I’m glad, too,” he says, instead. Then, because he really can’t resist: “I _guess_.”

* * *

**6\.  Huevos rancheros - do _not_ ask James**

“Primarch Vakarian,” Joker greets, and then almost doubles over laughing. “I liked that, um, ceremonial headdress you wore during the Council meeting. That _is_ what it was, right?”

Tali snorts audibly at that.

“I can execute you where you stand, at whatever time I wish,” Garrus replies dryly, but his eyes glint in amusement. “And it’s a helmet.”

“That was in _no_ way a helmet,” Ashley says, trying to force the laughter off her voice, and Joker takes the opening to excuse himself. Jack nods at him from the couch, and he nods back, making his way to the kitchen.

“Hello, Joker,” Liara says, smiling. She’s thinner, and she looks tired, but then again Joker probably doesn’t look like the apex of human evolution, either. “It’s good to see you. I’m … I’m sorry about your family.”

“Thank you,” he says, and in his chest the pain is constant, but dull. He has grown used to it. “We, uh, we actually recovered Hilary a few weeks ago.”

“I’m glad,” Liara replies, folding her hands in her lap. The kitchen goes silent again, but hey, even Joker will take comfortable quietude over making wisecracks, sometimes. And this is Liara – she isn’t the best person to make small talk with.

Joker sits next to her, and stares over the counter, takes in the spacious living room.

Cortez and Jack are sitting on the couch, arguing with James over something that is probably too stupid to care about. Joker doesn’t even try to overhear _that_ conversation, but he does manage to overhear Wrex and Grunt from the bar, because krogan don’t come with volume dials. Also, because they are probably getting wasted, and they are always very enthusiastic about that.

Joker smirks, then looks at the scenery outside. Kasumi didn’t make it, and Joker hasn’t heard from Javik or Zaeed or Miranda since the Last Stand, but the rest of them are here, chatting, laughing, sharing stories. It’s great. It’s _incredible_ , really, but … Joker still feels like nothing’s changed. Joker still expects Shepard will come back, one day, smiling widely, running across the docks’ boardwalk to jump into Garrus’ arms, into the Normandy’s airlock, into a Commander's role. Joker still asks EDI for advice when he’s distracted, still panics when she doesn’t answer right away, still expects the Normandy to lose power and to dive into the abyss of space like it did when she died.

Joker still feels aimless.

“You know,” Liara says, quite suddenly, “after Shepard died, I didn’t know what to do with my life.”

“Wow, glad to see I’m _that_ transparent,” Joker replies automatically, rolling his eyes. Then he winces: “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Liara takes a sip of her wine and stares at the piano. “It’s hard, dealing with loss. I still haven’t dealt with mine. If I’m to be completely honest, I doubt anyone in this room has. Shepard was … I am not sure if I’ll meet another anyone else like her.”

“Same here,” he says. “Is there a point to this or are you just trying to make me cry?”

“She died happy, Joker,” Liara goes on, ignoring him. “Of this, I _am_ sure. She died with no regrets. She died knowing that the Reapers would be no more. She died thinking of us, and of Earth, and of the galaxy, and of the freedom we’d gain. So I will live thinking of her, and what she meant to me, what she meant to the universe. I will _live_ , Joker. And so will you. And we’ll carry Shepard along.”

“Dammit, Liara,” Joker croaks, leaning over to shield his eyes. “Could you pass me the paper tow—thanks.” He blows his nose, and sighs, but he manages a chuckle in the end. “I feel stupid.”

“You’re not stupid, Joker,” she replies, touching at his arm.

“Yeah, I know; I was top of my class,” he admits, sniffling. Then he grins, crumples the snotty paper towel in his hand, gathers his guts. “Have I, uh, have I told you we’re trying to reprogram EDI?”

“I’ve heard some rumors,” Liara says, smiling back at him, “but I would especially like to hear it from you, if you want to talk about it.”

Joker blows his nose again, begins instructing Liara on the fine art of resuscitating unshackled AIs, and, for a while, doesn’t feel sad at all.

**Author's Note:**

> guess who just finished ME3 and feels emotionally exhausted? spoiler alert: it's me. i'm dead inside now, and i needed to pick at my wounds some more, so here is a sad fic about the aftermath. very original and unique, i know, but hey, i hope u enjoyed it!
> 
> p.s.: just in case you actually care, my shepard is a vanguard/paragon/colonist/sole survivor, and she survives that stupid-ass subpar ending (because screw you, bioware. u dont deserve commander shepard anyway)


End file.
